


Irving's Delivery Service

by parboiledcrustacean



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: A blush on John's cheeks which is there for entirely homosocial reasons, And some cake, But no angst for once!, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gen Work, Irvday2021, Just John's telescope, Less Ghibli than punned about, Marine scheming, Sol's soft spot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parboiledcrustacean/pseuds/parboiledcrustacean
Summary: The Marines are not the ship's delivery boys. Not for love, nor money, nor salt pork bribe.Until a very familiar object falls into their leader's hands, that is.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: John Irving Birthday Week 2021





	Irving's Delivery Service

A Royal Marine's duty is a difficult and vital one. It takes strong men to maintain order and discipline on a ship full of rum-soaked sailors: stronger ones to keep their mouth shut around the higher ups. His privates being used as errand boys, however, may be the straw that splinters this camel's back.  
"Darlington." Wilkes admits, one half of a trunk being carried up from the orlop. Darlington receives a reminder about his position on board in private and becomes too invested in his dinner to meet Solomon's eyes. Problem solved.  
"Gets us our lunch on time." Heather shrugs the heavy barrel from his arms days later, removes something from his pocket which makes Solomon groan. "Diggle makes it worth our while."   
"That's not the point! I know our pay's shite-"   
"Language!" One of the midshipmen scolds, and in the moment it takes Sol to turn and introduce him to far worse words, the barrel's hoisted back to Heather's chest.   
"And we don't get it til we're home. Eat your salt pork while we've got it." His glare brings a grin to Heather's face, the same one he always gives him when he knows Solomon won't do anything to stop him. "Sailors couldn't even lift 'em!"  
A threat to lift him overboard and drop him is followed by a visit to Mr Diggle, who can lift the barrels - should do, as it's his job.   
Order's maintained for another three days until Lieutenant Hodgson uses Hedges to return a familiar object.  
"Can't yell at a lieutenant." He can't. Though if Hodgson can't lift a bloody telescope he shouldn't be on board.  
"I'll do it." Will's defrosting his toes by the candle. He won't make him walk any further. Besides, if Sol's honest with himself, he quite likes fidgeting with the thing (though he'll never look any closer at their dinner again).

He takes his time returning the thing. Looks too closely at the drawings on the walls through the telescope, then far too closely at Gibson's freckles as he glowers down the lens.  
"Are you quite finished blocking the entire corridor?"   
"Not quite." No wonder the man's gloomy, washing a bundle of sheets that large daily.   
"It doesn't work indoors." A small voice informs him. Solomon bites back a curse at the realisation he's been stood directly in front of John Irving's cabin, and Gibson covers his laugh with a cough as he retreats down the corridor. "Come in." Somehow, he doubts either of them mind. He's a kind man, the lieutenant. He'd lent him the spyglass at Greentithe for the chance of a last glimpse at his sisters, a move kinder than Solomon had expected from his lot. A few arguments about the meaning of verses later, they're pally enough Solomon can expect a warm reception the rare times he visits.  
Thanks to the electric lights and wool blanket placed on the floor like a rug, warm's exactly the right word. The Lieutenant's cabin feels massive in comparison to their hammocks. Private. However irrational the thought is, Solomon swears he always hears his footsteps echo around it once he steps inside. As Irving sequesters his telescope back into a low drawer, he takes the opportunity to look again at the maps on the walls. Australia, one is, though John's reluctant to talk about it. He's a quiet man when he's not shouting. Hides behind his book, he imagines, but always pleasant enough to talk to. Perhaps he was sent there. Perhaps he's being extra nice to Solomon lest he reveal his secrets.  
He isn't. However much of a mystery John Irving is, he can't imagine finding anything sordid on his back pages.  
He finds something else, however. A small lump of something on a plate, glistening in the fire light.

"They've got cake!"  
It shouldn't annoy him. They're officers, always get more than the crew. But it had looked _good_. Coming back to a cold mess hall and whatever died in a Goldners' tin nine months ago isn't helping nerves already frayed from Little requesting three of his men shift a cannon between bells.   
"Typical." Caulker's Mate Hickey agrees from behind him. He hadn't realised his voice had carried that far, but as usual something about his red hair sets Solomon's own temper ablaze. "Double standards!" He'd love some cake. Hasn't had any since the apple tarts Daley's mother sent them off with. Much as they'd hoped the cold would keep them, the filling had furred over a month in and been given a sailor's burial.   
"Waste of good eggs!" Heather joins in with a grin. Though he doubts any would have lasted that long, given the fate of the tarts, he nods in agreement just to get the crick out of his neck.  
"Not everyone's gifted a lovingly inflicted scalping for their birthday." Gibson sniffs. His first thought's irritation, at his own voice for carrying too loudly over the mess and for Gibson's ears hearing his gripes. He only half means it. Heather doesn't mean it at all, though Hickey's never one to feign his complaint. It's just the way of the world on the boats, a line dividing the officers from the rest of them like the canvas which separates the marines' quarters. Solomon understands that.  
"Birthday?" The second thought strikes him a mouthful of oxtail later, and Gibson graces him with a singular stiff nod before turning away again. He's eaten his meal by the time the third hits.  
It's twenty degrees under outside, and just past seven bells. Irving will be wrapping himself in layers ready for the middle watch, and far more importantly, the other Lieutenant has probably managed to sleep after his. He knocks. More than half the crew huddled outside with him are good natured sailors, so it's not just going to be him barked at if this goes wrong. He knocks again, loud and deliberate, until the Lieutenant's door's abruptly yanked open from the inside.  
John Irving blinks at him, scarf askew, then at the men around him.  
"Loudly!" He orders, and one of the sailors begins the rendition. Recognising the tune, John's face blanches then reddens, meets Solomon's eyes then away again until the last 'And so say all of us' fades into a cheer and stamped feet. It's petty, a silly act of vengeance that can probably be heard as far away as the islands that bear his name. The heartfelt pleasure on John's face, however, makes him more glad to have enacted than the bewilderment on a bleary Lieutenant Hodgson's.  
"Thank you." He manages after a moment, cheeks red enough he looks windburnt as he thumbs the telescope in his hand.  
"Any time, Lieutenant." Perhaps once a year.


End file.
